A Warm Welcome
by ILoveCheetos-and-AteIsa
Summary: Crisostomo Ibarra, upon returning home after seven long years in Europe, quickly realizes that he's forgotten to account for something that can only be found in the Philippines: the unbearable heat. Based on characters from Jose Rizal's Noli Me Tangere. (Yeah, I'm in high school too, and I'm crying over the ending.)


**ILoveCheetos:** Here's my contribution to the el nolibusterismo fandom that no one asked for, because I am not just going to sit here and watch this fandom die.

p.s. I barely edited it :( and it's in English because I'm certain I would mess up the Tagalog very badly. Anyways, hope you enjoy!

* * *

It had not been this hot in Europe. Even in his memories, it hadn't been this hot in the Philippines.

Crisostomo Ibarra, who really could not afford to be distracted by little annoyances at a time like this, tried not to complain to himself every two minutes. He thought it insulting not only to the country but to his fellow countrymen that he might find the temperature... unusual; or exotic; or extremely high, which, as a matter of fact, it was. And at times he was plagued by guilt; that he would be pained by such inconsequential things, when he had just learned of his father's death!

But the truth was, Ibarra could not ignore the choking heat. He could barely breathe sometimes because of the insufferable humidity that hung over the house like an oppressive, heavy cloud. He had felt it on the ship, he had felt it in Manila, and it suffocated him here.

It was unbelievable.

Everyone went about their chores and errands as if the heat was _normal_. They labored; they panted; their foreheads glistened with sweat; but they did not seem very bothered. And they were not drenched in sweat as if someone had poured a tub of water over them, unlike Ibarra, who often felt like he'd just stepped out of a bath.

He had spent seven long years in Europe. And clearly, it had been much colder in Europe.

"Ay!" sighed Ibarra. Yet, no, his country had not changed, it was _he_ who had forgotten it. Let us excuse him for being a little melodramatic. He felt genuine remorse at once more finding another thing that made him a stranger in his own country, however small and petty it seemed. He did not enjoy the thought that, in some ways, he was as a mere foreigner; an outsider, a Spaniard, not a true native Filipino, and too alike the newly arrived officials from Spain, who were disgusted by the tropical humidity of the country.

But we must all grow honest with ourselves at some point, and Ibarra was wise enough to do so: he told himself that he hated the heat, and himself for despising it-or even just _feeling_ it, because evidently everyone else was immune to its effects.

Or, quite possibly, the weather was really unusually cruel that day, and everyone had just chosen to ignore it. Whatever it was, he thought it best to politely ignore it in the presence of others. It was unfortunate that at the moment nothing irked him more than seeing the servants go about their business as if there was nothing even slightly unusual, while Ibarra sat in luxurious idleness and perspired as if he were lifting weights.

And so Ibarra could do nothing but sit down in his study, open all the windows, and pray for wind. But even then, even as he sat unmoving (the letter he was writing now being abandoned), he could already feel that awful trickle of perspiration go down his neck.

"For the love of the motherland, indeed," he mumbled. This was truly unbearable. He was never sarcastic. Wiping his brow, Ibarra seethed as he left his seat and slowly milled around the house, looking for a cooler spot. It was about two hours till noon. He hated thinking about how the heat might rise even more in about an hour's time. Perhaps he ought to get to Kapitan Tiago's house before he had to suffer going out of doors at noon.

* * *

He'd given in and returned before he had made up his mind to leave. Ibarra decided (a bit naively) that it could _not_ possibly grow any hotter in an hour's time, and settled back in the couch, hoping that his prayers would be shortly answered and he would be granted a few breezes of cool wind. The heavens seemed to mock him in their silence. Ibarra contemptuously waited, handkerchief in hand.

He attempted to read. To his dismay, the words seemed duller than ever and Ibarra grew even more irritated. He, unfortunately, also felt the beginnings of a bad headache.

Giving up the book, Ibarra moved to the opposite end of the sofa with the vain hope that it would change something. But it remained infuriatingly _still_; not a single breath of wind blew through the window.

"To think, it isn't even summer!" he said to himself.

He then wondered if it would be cooler outside, under the mango trees. Now that there were no servants occupying the space, it was empty except for a few dogs lying in the shade.

"Thank God!"

* * *

It was most definitely not cooler _outside_, but under the trees - yes, it felt marvellously _less hot_. The ground didn't seem to be erupting with boiling steam, at least. And that in itself felt like a miracle already.

Ibarra sat down on the dirt and basked under the mango leaves. Carelessly enjoying the privacy given to him, he discreetly slipped off his shirt, finally ridding himself of the last discomfort he had been plagued with that morning. (The London-made shirt was of thick cotton, and did not at all match the humid weather of the Philippines. Ibarra found it necessary to buy new clothes, now.)

And for the first time that day, he relaxed.

No longer fraught with unnecessary worries, Ibarra was finally able to think properly. He was able to think about his country, his father, and what he ought to do next. The heavy, confused emotions that had tormented him for the past few days returned; it was almost terrible. Finding no other comfort in his memories, thoughts of Maria Clara flitted through his mind suddenly, and they came as a relief to Ibarra. She was the bridge between the surreal, weighty matters of death and patriotism (that Ibarra had thought of very often in the last few years), and the light, ordinary, goings-on of daily life and all prosaic -

The sun had shifted and found a slit between the leaves, putting a tiny spotlight over Ibarra's face. The prosaic was also the mundane, with its dull little troubles. Shoving bashful poetry and Maria Clara out of his mind for the moment, Ibarra moved to the left to avoid the sun. It still shone over his face.

Irritated at having been interrupted, he rolled over and -

_"Argh! Dios mio-"_

The dog had - no, not quite.

Ibarra quickly got up, still gripping his cotton shirt in his hands, looking down to see a growling dog, its fangs showing as it grinned viciously. In his carelessness, Ibarra had slammed his hand down on the dog's foot. His hand had _almost_ been bitten. But in his panic, he had almost imagined blood trickling down from a non-existent wound.

Why were there dogs in his backyard?! It was a common enough occurence in most households in the Philippines, but why _his_-

The dog was evidently about to chase him, since it had been roused from its lazy slumber disrespectfully.

Ibarra, shirt in hand, with leaves and twigs stuck on his pants and arms, wondered for one wild moment whether he might climb the mango tree. But before he could think, the dog sprang, and he ran.

"Get away, you accursed dog!" He yelled contemptuously in Spanish. Ibarra then began to wonder if the dog had understood him, for it had not stopped chasing him. (It probably did not speak Spanish.)

For some strange reason, none of the servants had bothered to leave the house. And none of them were hearing Ibarra's shamefully loud, frantic scream. He'd reached the opposite small grove of mango trees.

"Stop chasing me, dog!" He shouted once more, but this time in - rather awfully accented (for he had not spoken the language in some years) - Tagalog. Ibarra turned around to see that the dog had apparently understood him. It watched him with fiery eyes and barked. But it stayed there. Perhaps it was trained to obey commands, and had recognized the word.

Still, this was utterly, absolutely ridiculous. Ibarra hoped now that none of the servants had heard him.

It was beyond embarrassing.

No one would be fool enough to go through the lengths he had just to escape the heat - and certainly no one would be so idiotic as to slap a dog as it slept - this sort of thing never happened to Ibarra in Europe.

But that fact, coupled with the heat (once again, he was sweating), his earlier resentment of said heat, and the complicated nationalistic and patriotic thoughts he had entertained beforehand, Ibarra was understandably upset. Now feeling thoroughly annoyed at himself, and angry at the dog, he grumbled and began walking back to the house.

* * *

It was the least of his troubles. This was not how the story was supposed to go.

Who should open the back door, and stand there in triumphant, proud entry, other than Maria Clara! She, for a moment, had creased her brows in confusion. Then she seemed to understand (somehow) and was laughing.

"Crisostomo! Whatever are you doing? Why are you covered with leaves and dirt and..."

Maria's eyes went down from his face to his bare chest, and she quickly averted her gaze, cheeks flaming.

Ibarra attempted to put on his shirt.

"Ah! Maria Clara! Kumusta," he said, fumbling for words. "I - you did not send word you were coming!"

"No," she said, "for I wanted to surprise you."

"I have been having the most embarrassing time," Ibarra admitted glumly. "Curse this horrible heat!"

Maria Clara, despite feeling incredibly sorry for him, had to giggle. "The heat? _That_ is what drove you out of doors?"

Ibarra nodded savagely. Maria handed him her fan as she ushered him inside the house.

"Ay-a," said Maria, shaking her head disapprovingly, all the while trying to hold in her laughter.

"I fail to see why it is funny," Ibarra muttered spitefully to himself. "I truly did not expect the heat to be this awful, you know. It was much cooler in Europe."

Maria gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"Welcome home, Crisostomo."


End file.
